


Don't Start With Me

by pippinmctaggart



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Angry Sex, M/M, fighty!Richard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 14:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8018029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippinmctaggart/pseuds/pippinmctaggart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard utterly loses his temper. Luckily James knows what he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Start With Me

"It's a fucking load of bollocks!" Richard shouted, storming across the carpark to shelter under the overhang in front of the hotel where James and Jeremy stood, the latter laughing in glee. "It's utter bullshit!"

"You look like a wet rat," Clarkson said. "Er—hamster. A wet, refrigerated hamster."

"Sod off, cunt," Richard snapped, undoing his jacket enough to slip his hands inside to try and warm them in his armpits. "I'm fucking sick of being cold and wet on this fucking show. I've had it, do you hear me?"

"Don't be a cock," James said equably. "We all go through the same things."

"Like hell we do! I'm the only one who does it every. Single. Fucking. Time." He ignored the fact that usually when he was soaking wet and freezing, one of the others—if not both—were often with him. The trip to Edinburgh on the Vincent had been the absolute worst, though, and he'd been on his own for that one.

Jeremy grinned down at him. "Poor delicate little Hamster. Do we need to get a nice shoebox for you, line it with lovely warm straw and soft little tissues?"

Richard came as close as he had in a long time to punching Clarkson right in the face. Instead, he whipped his hands out of his jacket, clenching them into fists at his side, and went toe to toe with the taller man. "One more word, Clarkson—" he ground out, furious, not caring he had to look up to glare at him, "—just one more snide word or fatuous snigger, and I swear I'll drive my fist so far down your throat your prostate will thank me for it. Now get the _fuck_ out of my face."

"You're such a little prick sometimes, Hammond," Jeremy retorted, good humour dissolved. "Fuck off, and you'd better leave this attitude behind before we start filming again tomorrow. James, you deal with him. I'm out of it." He stalked off, heading across the carpark towards the film's director.

"Richard—" James began.

"Don't you start," Richard warned him, his chest tight and adrenaline making him sharp, edgy.

"I wasn't going to." James frowned at him. "Go up to the room and change, warm up. I'll deal with your car."

"…Thanks," he said shortly, and stomped off, shoving the hotel door open with more force than necessary. _Bloody Clarkson, never knows when to keep his fat mouth shut_ , he fumed, waiting impatiently for the elevator. _He's lucky I didn't beat him to a fucking pulp._

Arriving at his room, Richard swiped his keycard and opened the door, but before he could close it again James was there, was walking calm as you please into the room and closing the door behind him, deliberately turning the lock with two fingers.

"What the hell are you doing?" Richard asked, annoyed. "You said you were going to deal with my car, goddammit."

"And I will. Tomorrow." James leaned back against the door, his hands behind his arse.

"Then what do you want?" he snapped, shrugging off his jacket and turning away to toss it over the back of the room's sole chair. "I'm not in the fucking mood. I just want a hot shower and a bloody massive drink." He returned to stand directly in front of James, invading the bubble of space May usually preserved around himself. "What do you want?" he demanded again.

"Not in the mood?" James repeated, every bit as cool and composed as Richard was not. "If you take a shower now you'll kick over the shampoo, throw the soap, and generally behave like an utter twat. A state of being that a large drink certainly wouldn't help."

Richard took another step forward, so close now that his tension-taut belly brushed James's soft one, and growled, "I told you, May—don't start with me. Not today."

Infuriatingly, James smiled. "Oh, I'll start with you. I'll finish, too."

With a wordless noise of fury, Richard grabbed James's biceps and pinned them to the door. "Fuck you, May."

"If you like," James said, catching Richard by surprise as he thrust his thigh forward and pressed it against Richard's groin, smirking as he felt the answering hardness growing, twitching against him. "Not in the mood, my _arse_."

Richard swung James around, slammed him up against the closet door, kissed him hot and hard with teeth and tongue and cursewords. "Think you're so fucking serene, don't you?" he snarled, driving his hip against James's denim-covered erection, grinding against him. "Maybe I _will_ fuck you. Fuck you right into the mattress, fuck you right into next week, fuck you until you can't remember your own goddamned name."

"If you like," James said again, this time with a gasp of half-pain, half-pleasure. "If you can manage it."

"If I can—fucking twat, I'll show you what I can manage," Richard nearly shouted, incandescent with anger and lust and want.

"Promises, promises," James taunted him, head back and hair falling into his eyes.

"You are fucking pushing it, aren't you, May?" Richard rasped, then once again hauled him around and gave him a solid shove towards the bed. James stumbled, and almost before he'd righted himself, Richard had set upon him, yanking the waistband of his trousers open and shoving them only down to his knees, followed by his pants. He twisted his fingers in James's stupid stripey jumper, hauled it off over his head, and gave James another push, nodding in satisfaction as James tripped on his jeans and sprawled on the bed.

Pausing only long enough to dig the lube out of his bag, Richard climbed on top of James, dropped the cold tube on his chest, and undid the button on his own jeans. "If you want any prep, you'd bloody well better get to it," he said roughly, pushing his jeans and pants down to mid-thigh and wrapping one hand around his own cock, squeezing and stroking and pulling himself with no desire for finesse at all. And _fuck_ , did it ever feel good.

He groaned as James hurriedly coated three fingers of one hand with lube, shifted on the bed, and began to work himself open. Richard felt his breathing speed up, sweat begin to trickle down the small of his back. James was up to three fingers now, but Richard shook his head. "Do a fourth," he rasped. "I'm going to fuck you so hard, James."

James moaned, his eyes clenching shut and his head twisting to the side as he worked his little finger in as well, only his thumb and the base of his palm remaining outside his body. "Dirty bugger," he gasped. "Voyeuristic twat."

"You love it," Richard bit out, reaching down to wrap his fingers tightly around James's wrist and pull, watching hungrily as those long, deft fingers slid free of his arse. In one swift, fierce motion, Richard pushed James onto his back and hooked one leg over his shoulder, and then with a wild grunt thrust into James until he was fully seated, his balls brushing James's arse.

"Bloody _Nora_ ," James groaned, digging his head into the pillow. "Remind me to teach you again sometime about the joys of foreplay."

"I had foreplay. It was you with your hand shoved up your arse." He panted harshly, fighting the urge to pound in and out of James; he was afraid if he gave in, he'd come within seconds. Instead, he eased out slowly, then thrust in and held himself there for a long minute.

James canted his hips. "Move, you lazy sod." When that didn't work, he deliberately and rhythmically clenched his muscles around Richard's cock.

Something in Richard snapped, and as every synapse in his brain began to fire on the double, he drove his hips back and then forward, fucking James hard and fast until the sweat dripped off him, until both their bodies were slippery and trembling with need.

James gave up on being cool and assured. "Please," he moaned, writhing, fingers scrabbling for purchase against Richard's sweat-slick skin. "Please, Richard. Come on, please."

Desperate, Richard splayed one hand on the mattress and leaned heavily on it, allowing his hips to move faster, more freely. He sped his thrusts, buried himself to the hilt each time, changing his angle until he found James's prostate.

James let out a startled, lewd shout and came, arching off the bed.

The pulsing around his cock drove Richard to the very edge, where he teetered for two more thrusts before tumbling over the precipice, coming deep inside James with a long, low moan. Almost immediately, James's leg slid from his shoulder, and Richard collapsed on top of him, his softening prick sliding easily free. A moment later he felt gentle fingers in his hair, felt a kiss pressed to the top of his head. "Christ on a bike, James," he mumbled. "All right?"

"All right," James said, a smile in his voice. "You?"

"Nngh." In truth, he felt so shattered he was afraid he might be drooling, so he rubbed his mouth on James's bare chest to check. No, not drooling. Good. 

"Warmed up, then?"

He nodded. Warm and sticky and oh, so satisfied.

James huffed a quiet chuckle. "Want to have a kip?"

Richard nodded again. Yes, please.

"Want me to move?"

Richard shifted until he was squarely on top of James.

"I'll take that as a no, then, shall I?"

A few quiet moments later Richard, on the verge of sleep, mumbled, "Call room service. Have them send five pounds of peeled carrots to Clarkson's room. In a shoebox. With tissues."

James barked a laugh. "He'll just bring them straight to you."

"I know," Richard said, the corner of his mouth curving up in a sly smile. "The eyeful he'll get will serve him right, won't it?"

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt challenge on TGS.


End file.
